


Beautiful Boy

by BryttaniDaffodil



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:36:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2682872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BryttaniDaffodil/pseuds/BryttaniDaffodil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You wonder if he can see anything beneath the blonde hair matted with sweat, and a sweet mouth that has led to many a lewd comment. You wonder if he sees your blue eyes and thinks boring, or maybe he thinks devastating. You hope you can devastate someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Just another quick Johniarty. Hope you like it! I have gotten wonderful responses from my other two stories, so thank you all for that! It has been amazing. Please leave kudos/comments, and feel free to follow me on tumblr.

He looks so small sitting in the dark, curled up on the only park bench for several blocks. He has dark hair that is slicked back and his skin glows in the fake light of the streets. His eyes are closed, but his mouth is slightly opened and curled up. The bottom lip is torn and bright red as if he has been chewing on it all night. 

The abrupt end of your footfalls causes the boy to open his eyes lazily, and he peers at you through the night. His eyes are a dark amber and remind you of the whiskey your father reeks of. Framed by long, black lashes they seem deep and never ending. You feel like gravity might not pertain to anything in his sight. You want to stay there and hope you become weightless. You want to feel your skin shed underneath his careful gaze.

“Can I join you?'

His curled lips tug into a natural grin and he pulls his knees to his chest. You are left with enough room for yourself and the small bag you have been toting for so long. Its raggedness reflects your own, and the past you are slowly walking away from.

You couldn't say how long you both sat there, chilled from the November air. The only noise was the steady breathing of you and your partner in the dark. You don't want to interrupt this beautiful night. You don't want to add noise to such a noisy world.

But you want to thank him for sharing the blackness with you. You want to say this is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for you. You want to comment on the tears in his jeans and the obvious blood smears on the arms of his jacket. You want to tell him you understand why his breathing is labored and you want to tell him that they could drain him of all his blood and it still wouldn't feel like this night.

You say nothing, and instead watch your breaths mingle in the cold. A cold that you don't even feel anymore. A cold you will never escape no matter how far your scuffed shoes take you. There is a crispness to the air that makes your eyelids flutter and your mind to clear. It tastes like winter, and you want it to freeze you all the way to your marrow.

Tilting your head back you keep your eyes on the stars and not on the sad boy you see so much of yourself in. You watch the moon; in awe of the people who have walked on its eerie surface. You ponder on if it's more lonely out there, smothered in the vast nothingness of space, or in the silence that surrounds your own home. You wonder if it's more habitable there on its dusty surface than it is in the arms of your mother. You wonder how people have touched down there and yet you can't make your feet move one more step.

Your silent companion shifts when the late night headlights of the bus run across you both. His features are highlighted for a swift moment. That second is enough for your jealousy of his high cheekbones and natural arches of his brows to flood your stomach. 

The bus stops in front of you, and he gathers his things and every shred of courage he has ever had. You watch him struggle under all the weight. In comparison his bag is light and it slings over a bony shoulder. His bag drags his shirt down and you are sickened by the envy you have of his collarbones. His emaciated body is so close to perfect and your breath stalls. The only thing that could make this beautiful boy more perfect is if he wasn't breathing at all.

He takes his first step on the bus and into freedom. He turns and searches your eyes and face. You wonder what he sees. You wonder if he sees the hollowness of your chest. If he can see the shards where your heart should be. You wonder if he can see anything beneath the blonde hair matted with sweat, and a sweet mouth that has led to many a lewd comment. You wonder if he sees your blue eyes and thinks boring, or maybe he thinks devastating. You hope you can devastate someone. You silently plead for him to notice the real you, though, the monster under your skin. You beg with your eyes for him to see it ripping through your veins and nestled deep in your gut. His eyes do catch on the open skin on your hands and arms. It's close enough, you suppose. You just hope that he sees his twin within you. You hope he sees something worth envying in you. 

Whatever he sees, he does not share with you. He offers a silent hand. A hand that could lead you away from the burning, from the buzzing, from the utter loneliness that has plagued you for so very long. Your breath stutters in your lungs, and you feel the hot wave of shame and bile climb up your throat. You want, you want, you want so badly to touch those long pale fingers with your shorter tan ones. You want to compare your callouses to his smooth knuckles. You want to know if his pain tastes any different from your own. You want to see if this dark thing could devastate you without whiskey tearing through his veins. You want, but you can't ever have the things bubbling under the surface.

He notices and his empty smile whispers of unfulfilled promises. The doors shut on his wane grin, and you are left alone again in the darkness.

You close your eyes and feel the emptiness. You taste it and make it choke down all the words you are never going to be able to say. You swallow it like the pills that could have, should have, killed you. It comforts you that it feels the same both times.

You stand, and slowly head back the way you came.


End file.
